XLV. THAT MRS. JONES.

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We don't quite agree with Fanny in thinking women ought to bear all the blame. Eve never would have thought of stealing apples, if Adam hadn't been in a hurry for his supper. But in this instance Mrs. Jones was wrong. This is the story, as Fanny tells it:

"'Heaven be praised for Sunday,' said Mrs. Jones; 'when omnibus horses and women can rest from their labors. Mr. Jones? Bless my soul, the man has gone;' and she raised herself on her elbow, and pushed back the ruffled border of her nightcap, as if to make quite sure of her single blessedness. 'Tommy?' said she, to a little trundle-bed occupant; 'here, Tommy, you always know everything you ought not to; where's your father?'

"'Oh, he went off an hour since,' said the urchin; 'took his money-trunk and went down street.'

"Mrs. Jones leaped into the middle of the floor, examined the contents of wardrobe and closets. Yes—his clothes were all there; she couldn't decide whether she was a 'California widow' or not; the chances were about even.

"'Six little mouths to feed,' said she; 'house-rent to pay, and myself to keep out of mischief. Shouldn't have minded his going, if he hadn't kidnapped that money-trunk; he was getting dyspeptic and fussy, rather inclining to be ancient;' and she shook out her curls from under her cap, and attempted to finish her breakfast toilette.

"'T-o-m-m-y Jones,' said she; 'leave off shaving that cat, with your father's razor. Do you know what day it is?'

"'Well, you'd better ask father,' said the young hopeful. 'There he is, coming up the street with a money-trunk in his hand, of a Sunday morning.'

"'M-r. Jo-n-e-s,' said his spouse, as that gentleman came in, and walking so close up to him that their noses touched—'have you been imbibing? What did you get up so early for? and where on earth have you been? and which way did you go? and what have you been about? Make haste, and tell me! Pretty example for you to set this baptized Tommy—to be running round, Sunday morning, before sunrise, with a money-trunk under your arm. What do you suppose our minister'll think?'

"'Sunday morning!' said Jones, rubbing his forehead—'Sunday morning! That accounts! Couldn't think, for the life of me, why there wasn't a window-shutter taken down in the street. Been down to the store, as true as I'm a sinner; made the fire; opened the shutters, and hung out all the calicoes and ribbons and streamers I could find. Sunday Morning! Well, it's all your fault, Mrs. Jones; how was I to know? You didn't have salt fish for dinner, yesterday, though it was Saturday—that's the only way I know when Sunday comes. Shouldn't make innovations, Mrs. Jones; it's all your fault. There never was a commandment broke yet, that a woman wasn't at the bottom of it.'"

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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